Tag Archive: awkward


I found a book in the study today that I was unaware that we owned. This is not really a difficult thing to achieve, as I have not actually taken an inventory of all the books we own.  But, you know, still. I found this random book and was surprised.

It’s kind of awesome actually, which makes me think this book belongs to Drew.

The tiny, weird-looking D’s throughout the book also make me think this book belongs to Drew, since his handwriting is super jank.

Or I could pretend that this book belongs to my very own version of The Half-Blood Prince.

This book is entitled 501 Things To Do If You DARE.

This book is obviously not mine. I don’t dare to do anything. I’m the biggest chicken-shit I know.

Let’s start off easy.  I’ll take a look at the very first thing to do if I dare.

Public Things: #1 Ride a Roller Coaster

Rating: One skull  & cross bones

For an added thrill, do it without holding onto the restraints.

There’s a small D written beside this one. The Half-Blood Prince is telling me he’s done this one. As have I. And I have done it with no hands, too. Who’s a badass now?!

#2 Drive an Autobahn

Rating: Four skull & cross bones.

A wide, well-maintained road with no speed limit? Mama, sign me up! In some places there are speed limits (and concessions made for conditions throughout), but it’s mainly a megafreeway with no restrictions on your lead-foot instinct.

Fuck no. I’m a terrible driver and don’t trust others. No thank you.

Oh, here’s one.  I jumped around to Athletic Things, located within the Public Things section.

#87 Go deep-sea fishing.

Rating: one skull & cross bones.

There is another D written by this one. The Half-Blood Prince is just a copy cat at this point.

I’m fairly certain that I have done this. I remember on one trip to Florida (with Dad and our first step-mom), we went fishing on this big-ass boat in the ocean. I remember having no form of excitement for this activity as 1.) I have no desire to fish; 2.) I don’t particularly enjoy the open sea; 3.) I suffer from extreme motion sickness.

I shit you not: I had to put my head between my knees and focus on my own breathing to avoid tossing my cookies in a planetarium. A PLANETARIUM. The stars were moving to fucking fast. Talk about middle school embarrassment. As if puberty and petty bitches weren’t enough to deal with in middle school. Ugh.

As far as the deep sea fishing adventure, all I can remember is feeling extremely sick, trapped on a giant boat in the middle of the ocean for hours. I remember getting sick and having my dad hold my hair back while everyone else had a grand old time fishing for sharks or whatever the fuck else lives in the ocean.  I also remember my step-mom telling me I was ruining our vacation by being sick on the boat during the fishing trip and how I was a whiney little brat in the car ride down to Florida because HI I HAVE MOTION SICKNESS AND BEING PACKED IN A VAN WITH FOUR OTHER KIDS SITTING BITCH NO LESS, A FUCKTON OF LUGGAGE AND MULTIPLE COOLERS WITH “SNACKS” WHILE THE WINDOWS ARE UP AND YOU SUCK DOWN YOUR CANCER STICKS IN THE FRONT SEAT AS WE WATCH COOL RUNNINGS AND 3 NINJAS* OVER AND OVER AGAIN AND EATING NOTHING BUT MCDONALDS FOR TWO DAYS AND HATING YOU AND EVERYTHING YOU ARE BECAUSE YOU’RE THE DEVIL AND YOU RUINED MY FAMILY BY BEING A BITCHY, INTRUDING HOME-WRECKING WHORE— uh, I guess I could stop there …

Awkward….

Anyway, where was I?

Yeah, motion sickness.

And I’m the life-ruiner??

* I was not mad at all about watching Cool Runnings and 3 Ninjas over and over again.

Finally, I looked at the very last thing to do if I dare. I thought it would be intense and exciting but it’s not. It doesn’t even bear a notation from the Half-Blood Prince.

#501 Drink some tea

Rating: one skull and cross bones

Dude. I drink vanilla chai tea all the time! It is my jam. Yummo. I have conquered #501!

Perhaps I should make some now to come down from that rage blackout you just witnessed…

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Chief is molting.

His winter coat, apparently, has decided it is time to get the fuck out of town.

All weekend long, every time I touch him, his hair explodes off his body.  I’ve been pulling tufts of hair off of him, complete chunks of fur. It’s disgusting.

I spent the last twenty minutes of the Oscar Pre-Show brushing his hair to no avail.  It was never-ending.  Finally, after I was covered in as much fur as he was I decided it was time to put the brush away, wash my hands and take my clothes off.

So now Chiefy and I are watching the Oscars and avoiding how much he’s shedding.  He’s sitting happily out in the snow with his stuffed snowman head while I chill out on the couch with no pants on.

I’m having a grand time. And I don’t even like award shows. (It must be the no pants part that is making this night so excellent.)

ABC really knew what they were doing when they decided to have James Franco (omg boner) and Anne Hathaway host this year. Trying to grab that younger, hipper audience… well played.  They grabbed me as a viewer- which must mean I am both young and hip.

I’ll take it.

The only part I like about award shows is seeing what everyone is wearing, not that I even care who really designed the dresses each actress wears. I find the acceptance speeches excruciatingly awkward and embarrassing.  I hate all of that. I also have not seen any of the films that have been nominated this year. Not even Toy Story 3.

I’m not even pretending that it was me Justin Timberlake (omg boner) just presented an Oscar to.  There was no “I’d like to thank the academy…” coming out of my lips.  The second an actor gets up on stage to pretend they are not completely narcissistic and have to feign graciousness and genuine surprise, I leave the room to hang an article of clothing that has been resting on the biggest shelf in my room (aka the floor) for the past week.

Did you watch the Oscars? What’s your favorite (or least favorite!) part?!

Once upon a time….

baha just kidding.

I couldn’t think of anything to write. And I’ve been wanting to write that for a long time. The trouble is, even though every time I start a new post I want those words to start it out, I never have anything to follow them with. Maybe someday I’ll have something to follow “Once upon a time.” Even today, when I attempted to have something flow gloriously from typing “Once upon a time” it was complete and utter crap that came out. I randomly busted out some crap story about dinosaurs. And then I tapped the shit out of my “backspace” key because I thought, Katie, what the hell?! No one wants to hear a story about how you like dinosaurs but know nothing about dinosaurs nor do you really have a good story about why you like dinosaurs. So then I had to think of something else.

And now you got that story.

Actually, I’m gonna do something a little… different. And weird. And awkward.

I started writing something. You know, one of those secret things. The kinds of secrets you don’t tell anyone about. Not even your best friend. Because it’s one of those things that is scary to share because you love it so much and would absolutely die if someone told you it was stupid or that you should just give up your dream right now because there’s no shot in hell you’ll ever be good enough. It’s one of those dreams that you put away in a secret drawer to keep safe because it means that much.

But I’m gonna be brave, friends. I’m gonna share my special drawer-secret with you.

It’s brand new, this one is, and I wanted to share it. (I also didn’t know what else to put up for a post today.)

So here we go. It’s untitled thus far. But it’s mine.

—-

I was riding my classic Schwinn bicycle when I saw him step out of the car. The car was red and one I had never seen before. I didn’t pay any attention to the make or model because it never made any difference to me; I didn’t know cars. His brown hair was longer than I had remembered but it looked nice all the same, albeit a little greasy. My skirt billowed as I rode against the breeze and I felt my beachy curls begin to tangle. I had gone to visit the old lady with all the books, as I called her, and was coming home because my brother was due to show up that afternoon after his last final let out. Before I left, Mrs. Covington (the old lady with all the books) had filled my palms with caramel and butterscotch, just as she had done for the past fifteen years. Since I didn’t have pockets, I put them in the basket on the front of my bike.

He obviously had not seen me as I cruised past the driveway. His face, I noticed, bared no emotion. The hard line of his strong jaw was straight and his eyes bore ahead of him towards the front of the house. I was so surprised, I could not, for the life of me, think of anything to say to even get his attention.

The candy in the basket scattered on the grass when I hopped off my bike and left it in the yard. I didn’t pick it up. Instead, I ran as fast as my flats would carry me into the kitchen, where I knew my mom would be preparing dinner.

“Why didn’t you tell me Patrick was coming home?” I asked her.

It sounded more like an accusation, like she had deliberately held information from me and I had just discovered the truth. She did not like how I spoke to her, I could tell, because her face clouded with confusion and then slid into the expression I recognized as her disapproving of the tone I had used. “Patrick McKenna?”

“What other Patrick would I be talking about?” I snapped at her without thought.

“I didn’t know Patrick was coming home,” she told me as she reached for her glass of chardonnay. “Kath didn’t say anything on our walk this morning about him coming back.”

“Well,” I said impatiently, standing squarely in the kitchen, obviously flustered, “he’s here. He’s back. I just saw him get out of his car and go inside!”

Just then, Jack, my step-dad, strode into the kitchen and tossed his keys on the counter. It was a Friday, so Jack had finished early for the day and headed up north for the weekend. It was the common practice for summertime. He pulled the hem of his polo shirt from the waist of his khakis as he leaned in to place a kiss on my mom’s cheek and I wondered why he had so much fun playing golf every Friday.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said to me with a nod in my direction. “What the hell’s your bike doing in the lawn like that with all that candy everywhere?”

“I was in a hur-” I began.

“Patrick came home,” my mom told him, interrupting me. The significant glance between my parents was not lost on me.

“McKenna?” he asked immediately. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

—-

Thoughts?

There’s a story that seems to come up all the time at work. It gets talked about between us girls and it gets told in front of our customers. It’s all-around excellent, always appropriate story.

If dead animals and murder are always appropriate and excellent.

One morning, I was driving to work. I wasn’t running late, I wasn’t in a hurry, I wasn’t feeling rushed. I was just driving, like normal. I was probably listening to Justin Bieber. I had probably stopped at starbucks and thought it had the promise of a good day.

And then a squirrel darted across the street. And then it stopped. And it turned around, darting back the way it came. And then it stopped again. And turned around to go the way it was originally going. And then it stopped.

I watched all of this happen.  And I thought it was finally gonna cross the street. So I took my foot off the brake and started to accelerate again.

Then the little guy changed his mind one last time. I didn’t have time to stop. I wanted to, really. I can’t even tell you how badly I wanted to stop the car. But, dear readers, even with cat-like reflexes, that little squirrel couldn’t be saved. I ran the squirrel over.

I’m a murderer.

At that moment, I burst into tears.

Then, I busted out my phone and mass-texted the shit out of my phonebook. I texted my dad, my mom, two or three of my coworkers, and a couple other friends. It was highly upsetting.

My parents tried to make me feel better by sharing their roadkill woes. It didn’t work.

When I got to work, I still couldn’t shake the feeling of being a murderer.  I had stopped crying, but I still felt really bad.  My first customer asked me how I was doing, and he got an answer he definitely hadn’t been anticipating.

“Well, I ran over a squirrel this morning, so now I’m a murderer. Today’s not going how I thought it was gonna go.”

Silence.

And then my coworkers piped up with tons of laughter and did work to make what just came out of my mouth way less awkward.

It’s now a classic tale shared with all. I enjoy that this story is shared with friends and strangers alike. I enjoy that months later this story comes up out of nowhere and takes the workplace by storm. The story goes over really, really well too. There’s just something about me, I guess, that makes people find murder endearing.